


Mere Anarchy

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Series: The Second Coming [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 05:06:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13733778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: A prequel!Peter sits with Neal at the hospital, contemplating the case and wondering what the hell happened. Hughes stops by for an update.





	Mere Anarchy

**Author's Note:**

> Someone commented, asking if I planned to write more. Honestly, I had been writing a long chapter fic of the crash and the investigation, including Peter looking into Briggs and then realizing it was Kramer all along. The fic I posted earlier was supposed to be the epilogue. That never went anywhere, but I stole a chapter out of it! I edited it to fit better with The Centre Cannot Hold.  
> I hope it works and I hope you like it!

Peter had spent half the day Thursday at the office, working tirelessly with his team to figure out what the hell happened Tuesday. But at lunch time, El had gently but very firmly suggested that he take a break and go see Neal. He waited an hour, until they submitted the arrest warrant to the judge and decided that, while it was pending, there wasn’t much he could do. (That was a lie. There was always a lot to be done.) Peter sent the rest of his team home, with paperwork, and told them to take it easy. No one had slept much since the crash.

  
Himself included. Against his better judgment, Peter had taken Mozzie’s cab to the hospital. He was slightly surprised to see Moz wasn’t already with Neal, but apparently El had called and dropped a few hints. He didn’t even have to pay, but he was sure he would sometime, sooner or later, with money or favors. Not that that was important to either men at the moment.

  
They sat together quietly in Neal’s ICU room, on opposite sides of the bed from each other. Peter had his chair turned, right up against the bed, so he was facing Neal and resting his left arm on the bed. His back was towards the door. He told himself that he didn’t position himself that way so he wouldn’t see his partner’s leg. (That wasn’t the reason. It wasn’t.)

  
Neal was drifting somewhere between delusional sleep and absent wakefulness. His eyelids would flutter fervently and he’d shift in the bed anxiously, murmuring. That was different from a few days ago, when Neal was so quiet and still he made Peter nervous. This wasn’t much better.

  
Neal’s right wrist was broken, but his fingers still worked, evidenced by his annoying (reassuring) demonstration of relentlessly picking at the stitches on the back of his left hand. He was quiet, on and off, but went through periods when he was a little more awake. Peter wondered if Neal usually talked in his sleep or if that was brought on by the cocktail of drugs, the concussion or the fever. It was a little worrying, but at the same time, encouraging of the belief that Neal would be fine. It was something he had to keep reminding himself of.

  
He sighed, shifting around on the hard chair, rearranging the files sitting on his lap with one hand. His left arm was lying next to Neal’s right hand, acting as a barrier in an attempt to ward off any more ruined stitching. While technically, Peter (and Hughes) had told his team to go home and take it easy, he couldn’t follow his own orders. He couldn’t stop studying the information in the case files. The recordings, all typed; every scrap of evidence against Johnson & Briggs, noted; their case files and histories, everything.

  
Something was eating at him.

  
Briggs had a warrant pending, for his original charges, and for suspicion of solicitation of murder. His secretary, Melissa Harris, also had a pending warrant for much of the same things, as an accessory.

  
They didn’t have any pictures or descriptions of the people following either Johnson or Neal. Peter wished he had asked Neal to draw portraits of them as soon as the words multiple tails came out of his mouth. He would probably always give himself hell for not paying more attention to that stupid, tiny detail.

  
He still suspected—hoped, really—that some of them were Kramer’s hound dogs, sniffing out dirt on Neal. They had people following him. He knew Kramer was looking into his past, into him, probably trying to tie Neal to the FBI forever, like he suggested. Peter almost hated him for it. But it worked in his favor. Even if they were technically working against him and against Peter, the agents could have seen something useful. And even though it angered him to no end that Kramer would have Neal followed while he was undercover, like he suspected (hoped), he would be eternally grateful if they could just get him some damn information on who was following his consultant, and who put him in this fucking hospital.

  
Peter took a deep breath, shaking his head. He glanced up at Neal again, studying the small, soft bruises on his jaw and temple that were nothing like the big, deep bruises adorning his right side and chest, where two ribs were broken and another fractured. Peter had seen the pictures taken for evidence, since this was an attempted hit during an undercover sting, and Neal’s side looked like an abstract painting of the ocean: deep blues and purples with smudges of black. It made him sick. As bad as that was, Hughes wouldn't allow him to view photos of the crash. He couldn't help but be grateful.

  
He frowned, scrubbed his face with his right hand. He thought abstractly that he was going to have to shave tonight. And sleep, too. He needed to sleep. He bit his lips and forced himself to look back down and study the case files, instead of the bruises on his partner’s face or the tiny line of stitches over his eyebrow.

  
_The case,_ he reminded himself.

  
Everything there was said and done. Mostly solid, but Peter still felt off about something. Briggs was going to be arrested. Johnson was dead. The potential agents tailing the group would give their official statements, reports. If luck was on their side, the hit man would be identified and arrested.

  
But something was missing.

  
Peter wanted to say that it had nothing to do with whatever Neal could have possibly been hiding from him this past two weeks or so. But. His gut was telling him otherwise.

  
He really hated his gut sometimes. Peter Burke’s famous gut: annoying as all hell and stressful to certain friendships with certain conmen.

  
“I figured you’d be here. How is he?”

  
Peter turned towards the door to see Hughes standing in the entryway, nodding towards his consultant. Mozzie was no longer in the room. He must have seen Hughes coming from a mile away and left silently, without informing Peter.

  
He sighed and turned back towards Neal again, looking him over. There was a breathing cannula in his nose, probably helping a lot with the ribs. He was sprawled out, his body lazily sinking into the contours of the bed, conforming limply with the slight tilt. His hair was messy, but clean. It made him look young and Peter wondered, not for the first time, if Neal wasn’t fooling them all. There was stubble on his face, but it was completely unkempt. The only time Peter had seen his partner with any stubble, it was shaped and angled, a five O’clock shadow, but this time, it wasn’t at all neat. He hoped Neal would be annoyed with that as soon he really woke up.

  
“Better than yesterday. But also worse.” He shrugged. “He’s breathing mostly on his own. They took the tube out of his throat. But he also started running a fever, late last night.” He moved again, looking back towards Hughes, who had sat down in Mozzie’s vacated chair. He nodded towards Neal’s leg, barely holding back a scowl.

  
Neal hadn’t been wearing a seat belt when the car rolled. His foot had been pinned in between the door and the seat by the initial hit. It was practically crushed, broken in three places below the knee, one of which was a compound break, piercing through the skin. Left broken and out in a dirty environment for hours while the paramedics struggled to reach him and it was easy for bacteria to take hold. Surgery had taken hours, but it wasn’t fixed. It needed more than a band-aid and more than one surgery. Right now, it was locked in a brace, wrapped in bandages, snaked out above the blankets.

  
“Infection set in.”

  
“A hundred an’ two,” Hughes commented, staring at the heart monitor that had his temperature in the lower right corner.

  
“Up from earlier,” Peter said quietly, looking away. “The doctors are getting worried, I think.” He closed his eyes. “I’m his medical proxy and they’re talking about amputation. I haven’t decided yet, but even if they don’t, he won’t . . .” He shook his head, let the sentence trail off.

  
Hughes just nodded, letting the information soak in. He sat for a few minutes, looking Peter over intently before clearing his throat.

“Local police picked up Briggs a few hours ago.”

  
Peter let out a sigh of relief, nodding. He glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was after six. He should be getting home soon. But he wasn’t entirely sure he could force himself to leave.

  
“He’s being interrogated now. Hired a lawyer. He wants a deal.”

  
“Of course he does,” Peter scoffed. Neal shifted restlessly, mumbling at the sudden harsh tone. He lowered his voice, reaching over and setting his good hand above Neal’s cast. “He doesn’t deserve a deal. Reese, I know you saw those pictures. The bruises?” He took a deep breath and forced himself to lower his voice again, glancing anxiously at Neal. “Two broken ribs, a fractured collarbone. He had to have surgery. His leg is messed up all to hell, he’s sick. Look at him! He's--" Peter broke off, gasping. "Briggs doesn’t deserve a damn deal.”

  
Hughes waited calmly until Peter was done quietly ranting. He nodded, leaning forward slightly. “Peter, you don’t have to remind me. I know. I saw the pictures of Caffrey, I read the medical reports on both him and everyone else involved in the crash. I read the autopsy report on Johnson, and the driver of the car that hit them.”

  
Peter scrubbed his face again, hunching over towards the bed, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. Neal was muttering again, slurring his words. Even so, he could make out his name clearly. His chest tightened. He hoped Neal knew that he wasn’t alone.

  
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m too close to this, Reese.”

  
“You are,” Hughes acknowledged. “But you’re a damn good agent and we need to find out who Briggs hired. I don’t want to take the deal anymore than you do, Peter. The lawyer gave us until tomorrow to decide. Let’s make sure we don’t have to take it.”

  
“I’ll work all night,” Peter promised, placing his hand back above the cast on Neal's arm.

  
“No, you won’t. You’ll go home and get some sleep tonight. Work tomorrow. And don’t come in before six, Peter.”

  
He smiled, but it felt weird on his face. Like the muscles were reacting without his consent. “Yes, sir.”

  
Hughes nodded, straightening and standing from the hard chair. “I’m getting too old for hospital vigils. If anything happens, let me know.”

  
Peter let go of Neal’s arm, hastily shuffling the papers together and dumping them gracelessly on the floor. He stood up and turned towards his boss. “I will.”

  
Reese nodded, then stuck his hand out for Peter to shake. He turned towards the doorway, but hesitated and glanced back behind him, eyes skirting between his agent and his consultant.

“Peter.”

  
“Yeah?”

  
He waved a hand towards Neal. “I’ll see if I can get his commutation hearing moved up to this month. This is a hell of a thing to deal with. The kid has my vote.”

  
Peter set his jaw and nodded. “Thank you.”

  
He watched his boss leave, then collapsed back into the chair with an exaggerated sigh. He set his arm back by Neal’s and leaned back, closing his eyes. He wasn’t allowed to sleep in the ICU room. If anything went wrong, they would need him awake and out of the way. Still. Picking up his work files from the floor deemed to be too much effort.

  
“What did the Super Suit want?”

  
Peter opened his eyes and lazily glanced to his left to see Mozzie, back in his chair as if he had never left. He considered asking where he had run off to, but decided that was too much effort. Instead, he just shrugged grudgingly.

  
“Briggs was arrested, but he wants a deal. We’re gonna try like hell not to give it to him, but we need the name of the guy who did this.”

  
Mozzie didn't react. He looked as if he were holding something back, hiding something from him. He looked just like Neal did a week or so before the crash. Nervous, jittery. “I'm doing my own investigation,” he informed Peter haughtily.

  
Peter ignored that as best he could. The way they'd been acting set him on edge. He couldn't deal with that right now. Whatever Neal had been hiding, it wasn't important. Not now. “He also said he was going to try to get Neal’s commutation hearing moved up and that he might give a statement on Neal’s behalf.”

  
“Oh,” Mozzie said, surprised. “For soul sucking government agents, often involved in systematically repressing citizen’s rights and conventionally chastising my simple profession . . . you’re not all that bad.”

  
“Thanks,” Peter said dryly.

  
Mozzie nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, and it sounded sincere. He made an odd noise that sounded like a cross between a scoff and a giggle.

“Wait until Neal wakes up and sees us.”

  
“Being civil with each other without his influence?” Peter almost smiled. He shook his head.

  
“For the past five hours straight.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. There were tears in his eyes as he stared at Neal. “Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.”

  
Another quote. Peter didn't know who said it. He couldn't force himself to care. “It’s strange,” he agreed solemnly. “But I don’t mind it.”

  
“Y’know,” Mozzie said, “Neither do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked this! Please comment/leave kudos. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
